


on my life, i know for sure

by playedwright



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Eddie Kaspbrak Loves Richie Tozier, Espionage, Established Relationship, Field Operative Richie Tozier, Fluff, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, richie says the fuck word A LOT as is his right, slight angst, who am i if i don't make things slightly sad : )
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:40:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24593155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/playedwright/pseuds/playedwright
Summary: Richie feels like he’s going crazy. He’s always operated on a hairpin trigger when it comes to Eddie, but it’s worse now. Eddie breezes into the room and mentions that he got invited to a wedding and looks at Richie like it’s a challenge, and Richie breaks out in a cold sweat. He texts a picture to Richie when Richie is at work of him in a deep navy suit, getting fitted for God knows what, and the caption wouldn’t this be nice for a special occasion? and Richie cracks his phone screen with how fast he tosses the phone to the other side of the room.Last month, Eddie plopped himself down into their bed, while Richie was putting clothes away in their dresser, and asked point-blank, “Do you ever think about getting married?”
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 18
Kudos: 306





	on my life, i know for sure

**Author's Note:**

  * For [deadlight_s (scamsHan)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scamsHan/gifts).



> me rattling the gate of lore's text messages: please let me write self destruct reddie proposal please please please PLEASE
> 
> and then i DID
> 
> tho technically a prequel, this fic is set entirely in the universe of [self destruct](https://twitter.com/SelfDestruct_AU), a BRILLIANT social media au on twitter written by [lore](https://twitter.com/chernobrough) that's been making me feel batshit fuckin feral ever since they introduced the concept. if you read this, you're legally obligated to go read that as well. them's the rules.
> 
> content warnings for mentioned violence/mentioned off-screen character death, drug usage, and other things you'd expect in a spy au.  
> rated m for language and multiple references to sex but nothing actually explicitly written cause i'm a pussy

Richie’s got to be the most selfish fucking person on the planet.

He’s always known he was selfish. Hell, that’s what makes him good at what he does. But this, honestly? This shit? It takes the fucking cake. This is, like, hook, line, and sinker. Every selfish act he’s ever done in his entire life is now dwarfed by the fact he let himself have a taste of being loved by Eddie, because now he’s fucking addicted and he’s never gonna walk away.

Eddie’s been dropping marriage hints. The guy is not fucking subtle. Even if he was, Richie’s a trained professional, and would have picked up on it, but Eddie’s practically parading around the house wearing a neon sign that screams, _‘I’m thinking about marriage!’_

Hell, it’s not like the thought hasn’t crossed Richie’s mind. It’s more than crossed it. It lives there. It runs marathons across his mind. The thought is in excellent fucking shape, okay? Richie probably never _stops_ thinking about it. Thinking about a band of gold on Eddie’s finger. Thinks about introducing people to his husband. Hell, he thinks about taking Eddie’s last name. He’s officially a cliché middle-school girl, because the other week he literally wrote down _Richard Kaspbrak_ in a notebook just to see how it would look.

He burned the paper, of course. Just to be thorough. Wiped down the pen so there wouldn’t be prints, like that somehow _mattered._ Threw the whole notebook in the fire just to be safe, in case someone checked for indents left on other pages from the pen.

The point is, Richie feels like he’s going crazy. He’s always operated on a hairpin trigger when it comes to Eddie, but it’s worse now. Eddie breezes into the room and mentions that he got invited to a wedding and _looks_ at Richie like it’s a challenge, and Richie breaks out in a cold sweat. He texts a picture to Richie when Richie is at work of him in a deep navy suit, getting fitted for God knows what, and the caption _wouldn’t this be nice for a special occasion?_ and Richie cracks his phone screen with how fast he tosses the phone to the other side of the room.

Last month, Eddie plopped himself down into their bed, while Richie was putting clothes away in their dresser, and asked point-blank, “Do you ever think about getting married?”

Richie had never been more glad for his fucking training. He doesn’t even remember what he said, because he’s pretty sure he blacked out, but his mouth worked on autopilot, and it worked somehow. The next morning Eddie had woken him up with a soft kiss and a slow fuck and had whispered in his ear afterwards, _we have time, it’s okay that you’re scared but I love you, you’re it for me._

“You burned an entire notebook?” Stan says, exasperated and already tired with Richie’s shit, despite the fact that it’s only two minutes into their phone call.

“I know!” Richie hisses. “I’m going fucking crazy, Stan! I’m like a fucking. A goddamn rescue job, I jump every time he comes into the room because I’m terrified he’s gonna drop down on one knee.”

“I’m surprised you wouldn’t be on board if he walked into a room and dropped to his knees,” Stan says conversationally.

“I said _one knee,_ Stanley! One knee!”

Stan sighs. The phone fumbles a bit before Stan settles back into whatever he’s doing. “What brought this on? Why are you freaking out now?”

“His search history from two weeks ago is engagement rings,” Richie breathes out, all in a rush. He pushes his glasses up and pinches the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes closed. “I didn’t even. I wasn’t _looking,_ I swear. But it’s in the search history, like, a lot. And I knew he was thinking about it and I knew he wanted to talk about it more, but.”

“Why were you in the search history in the first place?” Stan asks.

Richie makes an affronted noise. “That’s so not the point, Stanley!”

“Were you hiding _your_ search history?”

“I’m a fucking spy, of course I was hiding my search history,” Richie hisses. “Remember a few weeks ago when Ben was doing clean-up for the Robertson Fiasco, but the tub was, like, fucking soaked in blood?”

“Yeah, well, I don’t know what you expected. You ripped the guy’s jugular out.”

“He stabbed me!”

“I’m not saying he didn’t deserve it,” Stan snaps, exasperated.

Richie huffs in frustration. He’s fucking _pacing._ He never paces. He’s half worried he’s going to wake Eddie up with his pacing, but he can’t help it. “Jesus fuck, well. The blood stained the porcelain. I had to google search the right way for him to limeaway the blood.”

“What did he end up doing with the body?” Stan asks.

“I don’t know, Staniel, I’m not disposal!” Richie groans. “Can we focus on the problem at hand here!”

“I don’t see how this is a problem,” Stan says honestly. “The love of your life wants to marry you. Boohoo. Some of us have real problems, Richie. You found your soulmate, isn’t that enough?”

“How could this be enough?” Richie asks. “How could anything short from everything with him be enough? I mean, fuck, man. I thought we had it pretty good when we were kids, you know? He was my best friend. That felt fucking invincible. I used to think, ‘man, there isn’t a single thing on earth I wouldn’t do for this kid’. And I fucking meant it. But we grew apart, and I thought it went away, and it fucking didn’t, you know? Because the second he was back in my life, it was there and stronger than it’s ever been.”

“And that isn’t enough,” Stan says.

“It’s not fucking enough,” Richie agrees. “It was. For a while. Back when he didn’t want to do the marriage thing again, you know? I mean. He was married once. When we first started dating, he told me he didn’t want to try it again. That it wasn’t the life for him. And at the time, I was like. Yeah. That’s fine. No one would want to marry me anyway. Like, look at the fucking life I live, right? I’m not the kind of person you settle down with.”

Stan sighs long and loud over the line. “But something changed.

“Something changed,” Richie agrees. He runs his fingers through his hair. If Eddie could see the way he’s pacing back and forth, he’d reprimand Richie for ruining their floors. “It’s like. I don’t know. I think we both… I think I mean like, this is what it’s supposed to feel like, right? I mean, this is it? This is what the fuckin’ poets write about. The Hail Mary that every stupid action movie hero wants, or whatever.”

“I don’t think you’re using Hail Mary correctly.”

“Suck a cock, Stan.”

“God, you’re starting to sound like Bill.”

Richie huffs. “Bill _wishes_ he were the one to introduce that phrase into our vernacular. Fucking asshole. Thinks just because he says things in his stupid accent, he invents them. I hate that guy.”

“You do not hate Bill.”

“I kind of hate him.”

Stan groans. “He’s Eddie’s best friend, you do not hate Bill. You’re just grumpy because Eddie introduced you to his college friend Bill and you had to act like you weren’t Bill’s bitch.”

Richie makes an affronted noise. “I was a courier, asshole, I was nobody’s bitch.”

“You were a glorified bitch and you know it.”

“You need to stop smoking so much fucking weed, it makes you a dick,” Richie sighs.

Stan snorts around a laugh. Richie can’t see him, but he knows Stan is shaking his head. “I’ve always been a dick. The weed just makes me honest.”

Richie pauses and tilts his head, considering. Stan has a point. “Yeah, okay. That is the reason why I called you instead of Bill. For your unwelding honesty.”

“Why exactly did you call?” Stan asks. “Richie, why all of this now?”

Why now? It’s a fair question. Richie’s not sure why. Except, he is. Maybe it’s because he woke up today to Eddie’s face on the pillow inches from him, dead to the world asleep and drooling on their brand new pillow cases, and the very first and _very_ overwhelming thought in his head was, _I wanna marry the fuck out of this guy._

It’s not in his line of business. Hell, it’s never even been in Richie’s line of sight. He wasn’t a marriage guy. He was barely even a relationship guy before Eddie fucking Kaspbrak. But Eddie changed everything. Eddie _changes_ everything.

“I just feel like this is all going to blow up in my face, Staniel,” Richie admits. He stops pacing and braces himself against the counter, wrapping his fingers around the edge and gripping tightly. He ducks his head.

“Richie, genuinely, what do you think is going to happen? Do you think he’s going to take all your secrets and write them on the U.N. building? Think he’s gonna, what, google search Nightingale and tell her where you live? Don’t you trust him?”

“Of course I trust him,” Richie says incredulously. “He’s the love of my fucking life.”

Stan’s voice is gentle, in a way it so rarely is. It speaks to the severity of this situation, or maybe to the insanity of it all. Stan’s gentleness only comes when Richie truly, genuinely needs it more than anything else. “So, what, then? What’s the problem?”

“If this fails,” Richie breathes out. It all comes out in one quick puff of air. Richie will lose the nerve if he doesn’t say it all at once. “If it fails, I’m done. I’m _done,_ Stan. He’s it for me, you know? The only one I’d ever want this life with.”

“This is terrible and I can’t believe you’re subjecting me to this,” Stan sighs. “Don’t give me your shit about believing I’m a secret romantic. I’m a doctor. A surgeon. I surgically removed my emotions. But Richie. I mean, shit. None of this sounds like a problem, buddy.”

Richie squeezes his eyes closed. “I just want to be the man he thinks I am.”

Not the guy with the mask. Not the guy with the gun. Not the guy who hides his bruises from his boyfriend and who gets stitched up by his best friend who found a way to keep him scar free. Not the guy who has “comedy shows” in Ohio when he really has black bag operations in Nova Scotia. He’s keeping Eddie safe, and he does everything he can to make sure he’s not lying where it counts, but he’s still not the fucking guy Eddie fell in love with. Eddie deserves _that_ guy.

“Richie, who the fuck do you think he fell in love with? Ryan Gosling? He knows you,” Stan tells him, voice rising. “We’re talking about the same guy, right? This is the guy that knows to buy you a certain brand of everything bagel because you prefer the poppy seeds on this kind rather than that kind. This is the guy that catalogued types of teas you might want based off of your moods and organized the cupboard accordingly. He knows you, Richie. Even if you think he doesn’t. Even if it’s not everything.”

“He wants to get married, Stan.”

“So do you,” Stan points out.

Richie groans. He lets go of the counter and starts pacing again, eyes steadfast on the floor. “Of course I want to marry him! I want forever with him!”

“So have forever,” Stan says. “Richie, genuinely, what’s the worst that could happen?”

“I refuse to answer that,” Richie says flatly. He won’t bore Stan with the extensive list he’s already written out about what could happen. At least eighty percent of it is all hypothetical, anyway.

On the other line, Stan shifts out of his seat. Richie can hear him padding across the floor. “Listen, Richie, I love you. And I love Eddie. And I think you both deserve to be happy. And I think you’re putting yourself in a situation to be unhappy when you don’t have valid reason to be. Plenty of agents are married here. You know several.”

“I just don’t want to hurt him,” Richie says. “Ever.”

“Then don’t,” Stan says. Richie can practically hear the shrug in his voice. “Don’t hurt him. Leave him in the middle of the night, disappear out of his life, and adopt a new alias. Break your own heart in the process. Except, that would hurt him, right? He’s not asking you to hurt him. He’s wanting you to consider a future with him. And there’s no harm in that. You’re allowed a future.”

“You should have been a therapist,” Richie says seriously.

“Fuck, no. Can you imagine? Shit, that would be terrible. I don’t give good advice ever. You shouldn’t listen to me. Anyway, I have to go. Bill just texted me, he’s bleeding again. Final words from yours truly: don’t be an idiot.”

Stan hangs up the phone without another word.

Richie huffs out a laugh. He looks at his phone in slight disbelief. It’s Stan, though. He’s known the guy long enough he knows better than to expect anything else. With another sigh, Richie tucks his phone into his hoodie pocket and turns to leave the kitchen.

Eddie’s standing in the doorway.

Richie’s heart stops beating.

It’s training and instinct more than anything else that makes Richie say, “How much did you hear?” His mind is going a thousand miles per minute, replaying his conversation over and wondering what he could have given away. How could he be so _stupid?_ How did he not hear Eddie creep up?

But Eddie doesn’t look mad. He doesn’t look scared. He’s looking at Richie like he’s never been more in love. He’s looking at Richie like he can’t believe he gets to have this. Richie recognizes that look, because it’s the one he sees on his one face in every picture he’s ever taken with Eddie.

Eddie takes a step forward. He’s wearing a t-shirt, Richie’s, probably. One he wasn’t wearing when they went to bed. Boxers that are just slightly too large for him. One sock has fallen down, puddling at his ankle. The domesticity of it all makes Richie’s chest hurt.

“We are going to dinner tomorrow,” Eddie says, which is just about the last thing that Richie expected him to say.

“What?” he manages to ask. He’s frozen in place. His heart still isn’t beating. Eddie’s eyes are wide and hopeful and nervous all at once.

“We are going to dinner,” Eddie repeats. His voice shakes. He blinks and clears his throat. “Tomorrow. You’re going to wear a nice suit. The dark gray one, with the black button-up. You’re gonna wash your hair first. I’m going to buy the most expensive wine on the menu. Well, the most expensive wine that we can afford on the menu. And I’m going to propose to you. Officially.”

Richie sucks in a sharp breath.

Eddie looks as though he might start to cry. There’s no mistaking the pure joy in his expression. He’s fighting off a manic grin. “That’s what’s going to happen,” Eddie continues. “Because I want to do it right this time. If I’m gonna do this again, I’m gonna do it right, and doing it right is not doing it here in our kitchen when I’m wearing boxer briefs and a shirt that hasn’t been washed since 2002, probably.”

Richie chokes back a laugh. It’s watery, wet as he tries to keep himself from crying. His mouth opens and closes, but nothing comes out. It doesn’t matter, anyway. Eddie’s not done.

“You can say no,” Eddie says gently. His expression softens. His hand twitches like he wants to reach out and touch Richie. Reassure him. “You can say no right now and we won’t go and that’s fine, but. I’m not going to ask you to marry me like this.”

“Eds, you could ask me while you were splitting me in half with your dick and I’d think it was perfect,” Richie blurts out. He slaps a hand over his mouth.

“I hate you,” Eddie says seriously. There’s a huge grin on his face that suggests otherwise. As well as an apartment in both of their names, pictures of them on the walls, evidence of a shared life, all suggesting that Eddie is just as crazy head over heels in love with Richie as Richie is for him.

Richie shakes his head. “You don’t.”

“I don’t,” Eddie agrees softly. “And I’m not asking you that question right now. But I am gonna ask you this. Do you want to go to dinner tomorrow?”

And what the fuck is Richie supposed to say besides yes?

So he does. Say yes. And he says yes again when Eddie makes sure they’re still on for dinner the next morning. He says yes more than once when Eddie fucks him that morning, slow at first, then faster when it becomes clear they both need it. He says yes again when Eddie asks if he should wear his purple button-up shirt. He says yes when the Uber driver asks them if they’ve got big plans tonight. He says yes when the hostess asks them if their table is alright.

Eddie is fucking beautiful. Radiant, even, in that goddamn purple button-up and neat suit jacket. For once, his hair isn’t gelled back. He smiles at Richie over the menu like he knows exactly what Richie is thinking. And hell, he probably does.

“Still okay?” Eddie asks, when the server brings them a fine, expensive bottle of wine, and pours them each a healthy glass. His hand finds Richie’s knee under the table and squeezes reassuringly.

“I’m fine,” Richie promises. “Don’t get us kicked out of this restaurant, too.”

“Oh, fuck you. They fucked up your order, what was I supposed to do? Just let you eat a fucking meal you’re allergic to? No, we told them specifically and they fucked it up anyway. I saved your life, you should be grateful.”

Richie grins. “Oh, baby, I’m grateful for you every minute of every day.”

Eddie’s cheeks darken significantly. “Yeah, well. You have a disorder.”

“You can’t ask me to be grateful for you then be bashful when I am,” Richie argues. “Accept my compliments and my love.”

“Never,” Eddie says tautly.

Richie shrugs, feigning sadness. “Fine, then, guess I’ll just go then. I’m gonna go find a cab.”

He stands dramatically, turning on his heel, but Eddie catches him by the wrist, already halfway out of his seat too. Richie pauses, looking at him with a quirked brow. Daring him to make a scene. To call Richie an idiot and tug him back into his seat and tease him mercilessly over whatever he decides to order.

But Eddie slides the rest of the way out of his chair and sinks to one knee, right there in the middle of the restaurant, before their dinner even starts.

Richie’s heart is in his throat. 

“Don’t go,” Eddie starts. “I want you by my side for the rest of our lives.”

“Eddie,” Richie chokes out.

“Shut up,” Eddie says quickly. His voice rises, the way it does when he’s trying not to cry. He pulls a velvet box out of his jacket pocket, and _Christ,_ this boy really went all the way. The whole nine yards, down to the restaurant full of people looking at them with smiles on their faces. “It’s my turn, yeah?”

Richie nods. He croaks out, “Yeah.”

“Good,” Eddie says. He clears his throat. “I know I joke all the time about how you must be maligned to be in love with me, but the truth is, I’m the one whose fucking crazy. You make me feel head over heels insane. I can’t go to bed without dreaming about how much I love you. Have I ever told you that? I pretty much never stop thinking about you. And I’m a stats guy, so every time I think about you, I put it into statistics. Statistically speaking, there was only an eighteen percent chance we would run into each other again in Derry when we did. A twenty-three percent chance that you would ask me out. An eight percent chance that we would both end up living in the same city, all the way on the other side of the country.”

“A fifty perfect chance you smack me in the mouth any time I made a stupid joke,” Richie contributes.

Eddie shakes his head and laughs. “Sixty-two percent, actually,” he corrects.

Richie laughs. So do the people at the table next to them.

But Eddie’s crying now, as he continues on. “There was a forty-eight percent chance we made this work. An even lesser chance that we would move in together. But there was always, _always_ a one hundred percent chance that I was going to fall in love with you. Always a guarantee that one day I’d realize I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you.”

“You’re so fucking nerdy,” Richie cries. He wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand, giggling as Eddie giggles with him. Eddie squeezes the hand he’s still holding. “I can’t believe you’re doing this with numbers.”

“I’m not going to waste any more time with numbers,” Eddie continues, raising his eyebrow. “Mostly because I know you and I know you’re gonna stop paying attention pretty soon if I even try to say another number to you.”

Richie laughs again.

“So I’m just gonna ask it,” Eddie continues on. His voice is no longer wavering. This is the most certain he’s ever looked about anything in his life. “And I’m gonna hope to god that the chances of you saying yes are as high as I think they are. Because I love you so goddamn much that I don’t want to waste another breath without knowing that I’ll get to call you my husband soon.”

It’s corny and perfect and unique and it’s everything but more than that, it’s _Eddie,_ and god, if that doesn’t make it the best damn thing in the entire world. Richie doesn’t feel like he’s being selfish anymore. What could be selfish about sharing a life with a man who so clearly wants to share it with him? Richie was made to protect Eddie. He’ll keep on protecting Eddie. And Eddie will keep on saving him, too.

“Richie, will you marry me?” Eddie asks. He holds the ring out. He’s offering so much more than either of them can truly comprehend.

This is the only thing in the world Richie’s ever wanted. It’s the only thing he’ll ever want. So he says yes, again, and he makes sure that this time when he says it, it’s the most important time he’s ever said it at all.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me on [tumblr](https://rchtoziers.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/SPACERICHlE) if you want to come say hello!


End file.
